


The Shadow of Hope and Transcendence

by Dark_Sinestra



Series: DS9: Sub-Prime [25]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Intrigue, Medical Procedures, Mind Meld, Mind Rape, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Sinestra/pseuds/Dark_Sinestra
Summary: On the eve of Bajor’s admission to the Federation, Garak and Sisko make startling discoveries with implications they can neither control nor understand. As their conditions decline and their visions become more disturbing, those around them have no choice but to take responsibility for their safety and hold to their decisions. In Internment Camp 371, Julian learns that even trusted allies pose hidden dangers and fears the cost of freedom could be too high to pay.





	The Shadow of Hope and Transcendence

**Part I**

_Garak  
Garak’s Clothiers_

One of the things Garak loved about working in fashion was the constant change. Most people didn’t realize what a challenge it was to comb through new fashion trends from various leading cultures of the Quadrant and not merely stay up-to-date on them, but predict ahead of them and stock accordingly. He had grown more adept at it through the years, suffering fewer losses and disasters. He needed the focus now more than ever, one of the few enjoyments left to him on the station.

He threaded his way through his displays with an inventory list, marking what needed to go on sale soon, what hadn’t moved in over a month, and what was selling particularly well. He did his best never to have empty racks. It still happened from time to time, like with the new Bajoran hats. He didn’t have to like them to sell them. A fortunate thing, he thought, or he’d never make any money at all.

He did brisk business that morning. There was an air of optimism among both the Bajoran population on the station and the Starfleeters. He had heard a few rumors here and there as to why, whispers that the Bajoran petition to join the Federation was going well, but nothing more than that. In truth, to him it was a depressing subject, so he avoided all but the most surface of information about it.

Around 1000 or so, Rom rushed into his office with a look of dismay severe enough to give him pause. Garak set aside his PADD with a feeling of foreboding. Hadn’t Rom been expecting Nog to arrive back on the station today? Rom saved him the trouble of having to ask. “It’s Brother!” he blurted.

Garak felt his concern beginning to ease. Bad, perhaps, but not catastrophic, at least as far as his interests lay. “What is it this time?” he asked.

“He’s been arrested!” Rom paced the front of his store. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t leave the station, not with Nog on the way and a party already planned.”

Garak’s brow ridges dipped lower. “Slow down,” he said in his most reasonable tone. “Your brother has been arrested several times. I’m sure this is no dif—”

Rom cut him off. “It’s very different!” he snapped. “Odo is flying him to meet with a Federation grand jury right now, and he wouldn’t say why. No one has ever taken Brother off the station before. He has never done anything serious enough for it, and he probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t left the bar.”

Garak shook his head firmly, circled his counter, and put a light hand to Rom’s shoulder to guide him toward the back. He had the computer lock his doors on the way. “You mustn’t think like that,” he said. “Quark is a grown man. He’s responsible for his decisions, not you.” Quark was more trouble than any five other Ferengi he had ever known put together, with the possible exception of that loathsome liquidator. If Garak wasn’t almost certain Rom would go back to the bar in his absence and ruin any chance he ever had at happiness, he’d have wished Quark a long sentence and a miserable rest of his life.

Rom’s disconsolate expression didn’t change. “Maybe. He listened to me, though, whether he wanted to or not. There were lots of times he wanted to do stupid things that I talked him out of. Now there’s nobody there to talk him out of anything. He’s alone.”

Garak replicated him a glass of snail juice with extra shells and passed it to him. “He’s not alone,” he said patiently. “You’re still here with him on the station. You stay in regular contact. Rom, you’ll forgive me for saying it, but I don’t think this is really about Quark.”

The Ferengi paused with his glass halfway up to his mouth. He blinked at him. “You don’t?”

“I don’t,” Garak repeated. He replicated himself a red leaf tea and turned back to face him. “Nog will be here in a matter of hours. It’s natural you’d want things to be as perfect for him as possible. Stable. Doubtless, he’ll be disappointed to hear his uncle has been arrested for something potentially serious. Do you truly think Nog will blame you for it?”

Lifting the glass the rest of the way, Rom drained the contents in several large gulps. When he lowered it, he shot Garak a sheepish look. “It’s scary when you do that,” he said.

“Do what?” Garak asked innocently.

“Know me better than I know myself.” He offered the glass back to Garak, the shells rattling together with the movement. He took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “You’re right. Brother can take care of himself. I need to focus on Nog. There’s a whole case of root beer waiting for him as a housewarming present, uh...minus one. I drank it.”

“Housewarming?” _Root beer?_ He fought back a look of disgust.

“Yes,” Rom said, nodding. Beneath the enthusiasm, Garak sensed a thread of unease. “He and Jake are going to share quarters. Nog said that now that he’s a cadet, he needs to be more responsible, sooo...he wants to live on his own instead of with me.”

Garak recycled the empty glass. An old ache settled in his chest, a familiar pain by now. “One of the most loving things a father can do,” he said, taking a small sip of his tea, “is to let his child grow up and find his own way. You’re not abandoning him any more than you’ve abandoned Quark. You’re there. You won’t be far if he falls, and you can be the hand that helps him up again to stand on his own.” He realized with a start that the ache he felt in the moment wasn’t for Tain at all, but Tolan. He offered Rom a complex smile and started both of them toward the front. “Now, I have work to do, and so do you.”

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Julian kept his fingers laced loosely behind his back as he strolled. It wasn’t difficult to keep his expression deadened and defeated. Every day of captivity hammered a sense of futility and helpless dread that much deeper. When he passed Murak on his own walk, he lifted two fingers to scratch at the side of his face. Murak lifted both brows. He heard the Vulcan’s steps receding behind him.

He glanced across the commons and noticed Varal and Branagh squatted in a loose circle of Romulans, Cardassians, and the single Markalian captive playing a game with makeshift dice. Varal pressed a single finger against his lips once before reaching for the dice to roll. Julian kept walking.

His next mark was the dust showers. Sela emerged from the swinging door right in front of him and shouldered him aside with a curse that had no direct translation. “Well, if you’d watch where you’re going!” he snapped. A nearby Jem’Hadar guard flicked a glance their way then resumed looking straight ahead when it became obvious they weren’t coming to blows. Julian silently counted the seconds it took for him to notice and then to decide their actions weren’t threatening, committing the tally to memory along with several others from his daily rounds.

He took note of which prisoners associated most closely and when, the rhythm of the place starting to make sense to him after several days of careful observation. Unsurprisingly, the Cardassians were second only to the Jem’Hadar in their rigid adherence to daily ritual. They had a clear hierarchy and preference for places to sit, walk, exercise, and relax. Although it was obvious that many of them didn’t like each other, they were quick to close ranks against any of the Romulans who interfered with their routines.

It irked him more than a little that for the most part they ignored him altogether as though he were beneath them and not a threat. The Romulans were less predictable and more openly contemptuous. He suspected that some of the trouble they caused the Cardassians was out of sheer boredom and an enjoyment of stirring the pot. They deigned to speak to him from time to time, always with a snide mien or as though they entertained a private joke of which he was the brunt. He took small comfort in seeing that three aliens of species he didn’t recognize were treated in similar ways. None of the three had been open to his overtures, and one of them was like the Breen, the universal translator unable to parse its strange language at all.

After finishing his circuit, he ducked into his barracks for a small sip of water and to check with Martok on Tain’s progress. For now, Martok sat every Tain watch, as he was still recovering from the beating he took earning Tain’s medicine. The Klingon shook his head before Julian could ask. No news from within the crawlspace. Julian stepped closer and reached for the side of his face. “Doctor,” he growled a warning.

“That’s right. I am,” Julian said tightly, “and you will let me do my job.”

Martok grumbled under his breath but held still for him. Julian frowned. He didn’t like the way the skin gave near the eye socket or the feeling of squishy shifting beneath it. He liked the coloring even less. A harder prod released a slow ooze of foul smelling fluid, yellowish brown and thick. Pressing his lips together he shook his head before he could stop himself.

“That good, is it?” Martok sighed. “It has been hot for two days. Tight. I saw no use in telling you.”

“Because there’s nothing I can do about it,” Julian finished for him. “I know. Tip your head back for me and keep your eye open.”

He must have been feeling worse than he let on. He did it without arguing. Julian did his best to get out of what dim light they were allowed and peered deeply into the pale blue. The white was yellowed, and he saw what looked like a bit of corneal clouding. If he couldn’t do something about the growing infection, the general was going to lose his other eye and then likely his life. He released the side of his face and clapped his hand down atop a broad shoulder. “Still ugly,” he said with as much forced humor as he could.

“Still not as ugly as Tain,” Martok retorted with a chuckle that died away into a wet sounding cough.

“Maybe Ikat'ika will allow me to make a bargain for you,” the doctor proposed. “Starting out, I’d probably only have to fight one of them.”

“That’s one too many,” he objected. “You’re not expendable. I’ve healed from worse. Klingons are made of sterner stuff than you humans. You’ll see.”

_I’ve treated Klingons,_ he thought. _You’re not invulnerable._ He knew better than to waste his breath. Arguing with Martok at this point would only further stress him and speed along the infection. “It’s time for Tain’s break.” He ducked his head into the darkened alcove. “Take fifteen,” he called then waited to see if once again he’d have to needle him to do as he asked.

He heard the Cardassian’s labored breathing and shuffling on hands and knees before he saw him emerging head first. Tain swatted away his offer of help and struggled to his knees, then his feet before moving to take a heavy seat on his bunk. “This must remind you of your infirmary on Deep Space Nine,” Tain said, still out of breath. “Surrounded by semi-invalids under your watchful care.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martok growled.

“No, it’s nothing like my infirmary,” Julian said. “If we were in my infirmary, I could actually help you.”

“That’s one of the problems with humans,” Tain said, looking to Martok. “They have an unfortunate tendency toward all or nothing thinking.” His muddy gaze settled back on Julian. “You could give me two or three months, perhaps, assuming I was cooperative, avoided kanar, and slept a solid four hours per night as prescribed. Do you think I’d do any of that?”

He didn’t want to smile. He felt it tugging the corners of his lips nonetheless. He shook his head slightly. “No. You are every bit as infuriating and contrary as Garak.”

“He was an apt pupil,” Tain said. His breathing began to even out, slower and deeper. He took a closer look at Martok. “You won’t have to do that again. I’m close. A matter of days now.”

“Going soft?” Martok grated.

“Hardly. I’m dying. There is no reason to try to preserve me beyond my usefulness. I’m tired. Tired of all of your faces, voices, and insipid concerns. I won’t take another dose when this one runs out, so don’t waste my time or your effort.”

He reminded Julian so much of Garak in that moment, the time on the runabout after he’d been shot and insisted on attending the funeral. He could imagine Tain invoking interstellar treaty terms should he try to medicate him against his will. “I’ll respect your wishes,” he said.

“I can think of eleven reasons that’s wise of you,” Tain said simply, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall to finish his break in silence.

Martok chuckled. “Cardassians. They never ask a favor when a threat will do.”

_Garak  
The Promenade, Level Two_

It was a good view of the Replimat without the three seated inside close to the entrance being able to get a decent view of him. Garak let his hands rest lightly on the railing of the crosswalk. Jake half sprawled in his seat with one long leg out to the side, laughing and talking almost loudly enough for his words to carry to Garak.

Ziyal sat to his right, a hand lifting to cover her laughter. She cut her gaze toward the captain’s son in a way he recognized as her feeling conflicted about finding something funny she believed she shouldn’t. Nog sat across from Jake with his back to Garak, so he couldn’t see his face. He saw how his back and shoulders stiffened with the other boy’s remark. So, all was not well with the new living arrangements.

He watched Ziyal grip Jake’s shoulder and give it a light shake, her eyes still dancing. She said something that shifted his focus to her. His shrug was easy, but there was something in his eyes Garak hadn’t seen there before. He sat up a little straighter, offered what looked like conciliation to Nog, and the Ferengi’s shoulders relaxed a touch.

Garak decided he had seen enough. He should have noticed before this. Ziyal had stopped talking about Jake with him in passing and hadn’t mentioned in some time any of the projects they worked on together. Clearly, they still spent time together, so it wasn’t a breach in the friendship. It felt bittersweet knowing that she was finally taking some needed steps away from her focus on him. Selfishly, he enjoyed having her attention. She made him feel young again. More than that, she helped him feel less distant from Cardassia. He could only hope the young man understood how special she was and that he wouldn’t break her heart. He wouldn’t receive leniency if he harmed the captain’s son.

It was that in-between time on the station when day workers had already closed shop but the nightlife had yet to pick up. Garak descended the stairs and drifted toward the infirmary. He and the doctor weren’t due to meet officially until lunch tomorrow, back to a weekly schedule that was neither satisfying nor particularly entertaining. He lingered just outside and listened for Julian’s distinctive cadence.

Instead he heard it from further down the corridor, followed by the chief’s unmistakeable brogue. He immediately began to walk toward Quark’s, hoping it wouldn’t look as though he had been lingering. It was an unnecessary concern. Julian didn’t see him at all. The two men, dressed in some barbaric looking regalia, headed into the bar toward the holosuites.

Why was he doing this? His quarters were a far more comfortable place to be alone and felt less lonely for lacking a crowd to ignore him. How strange and disconcerting it seemed to have the solitude he had wished for during his incarceration, only to realize he didn’t truly want it at all.

He ensconced himself on his sofa with Preloc and a full glass of blue kanar, pretending that he found it as satisfying as he used to and nearly managing to convince himself.

_The Replimat Café_

Garak arrived a few minutes early under the pretense of claiming their favored table, given that the station was more crowded than usual. He intended to behave himself and try to give a fair assessment of the latest detective novel Julian suggested for their exchange rather than his usual sarcasm. A strong friendship could weather his caustic humor. He no longer knew quite where he stood with the doctor. Best to tread more carefully.

He frowned when he saw Julian approaching, not alone as expected, but with Rom and Ziyal in tow. By the time they could see him, he’d erased all visible traces of his displeasure, rising from his seat to press hands with Ziyal and then resettling again. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said lightly. “I wasn’t expecting a full table.”

Ziyal looked a little guilty. “Normally, I wouldn’t intrude. I know how much you enjoy your literary lunches. It’s just that...well...” She shot a quick glance at Rom. “Jake and Nog are fighting again, and I’m sort of hiding from both of them. I’m tired of them putting me in the middle of it.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Julian said with a half smile. “I can hardly fault you for your tactics. Can you, Garak?”

“Not at all,” Garak said. “Rom?” He knew that he and Julian were getting along better than before. He didn’t think Rom was to the point of deliberately seeking out the doctor’s company socially, however.

Rom glanced nervously at all three of them as he slipped into his seat. “This doesn’t go past this table,” he said quietly and leaned in closer. They all did the same. “Nog is a Founder.”

Both Ziyal and Julian burst into laughter. Garak didn’t, not because he believed Rom was right, but because he could tell that he believed it. “That’s...quite the assertion,” he said gravely and shot a stern glance at the other two. Ziyal immediately fell silent and dropped her gaze. Julian didn’t quite lose his amusement but had the decency to stop laughing.

“I’m serious,” Rom said. “He’s nothing like he was before he left. He gets up at 0430 every morning. He’s obsessed with order. He wrote me up for an untidy tool box. He does his own laundry!”

Ziyal bit her lower lip and glanced between Garak and Julian. Julian came to the rescue. “Rom, that just proves he’s _not_ a Founder.”

“It does? How?” he asked.

“Think about it. With every instance of a changeling replacing someone, they’ve been nearly undetectable. If they did such a botched job of it that even the person’s own father thought he was someone else, how effective would they be?”

“The doctor has a point,” Garak said. “Also, consider this. What benefit would there be in impersonating someone of such low rank? Nog has no access to classified information or systems without tight security. Any Founder attempting to hack into a network from a cadet’s comm system would be flagged immediately.”

He could tell they weren’t making headway. It was the downside of Rom’s persistence. Once he got a notion in his head, he ran with it, whether it made sense or not. He sighed and shot Julian a significant glance. Ziyal stayed quiet, truly chastened for laughing, although Garak suspected that was due to his disapproving reaction and not innate guilt.

“If you’re really that worried,” Julian said, “take a blood sample. There isn’t a changeling we’ve found yet who can pass that test.”

Rom’s eyes widened. “If I do that and he is a changeling, he’ll kill me!”

“Wait until he’s asleep,” Ziyal suggested.

Garak waited for Julian to explain why that wouldn’t work, only he didn’t. Instead, he smiled brightly and gestured at Ziyal. “There you go,” he said. “Problem solved.”

Rom nodded, smiled more hesitantly and stood. “I can do that,” he said. “Nog always was a sound sleeper.” He headed over to one of the replicators. Ziyal followed suit. 

Garak waited until both of them were out of earshot. “I thought you two were getting along better these days,” he said.

Julian nodded. “We are.”

“It’s not like you to be so dismissive.” Garak frowned.

Julian glanced over at the two in line and back to Garak. “Come on, Garak. You know as well as I that Nog is no Founder. If taking a little blood while he’s sleeping makes Rom feel better, where’s the harm in it?”

“And allowing Ziyal and Rom to believe that changelings sleep like you or I?” he asked. “You see no potential harm in that?”

Julian scoffed. “I’m sure they pretend, especially when impersonating someone. I’d think you’d get suspicious of someone who stayed awake sixteen to eighteen hours straight every day, only to disappear for an hour and come back fresh as a flower.”

Garak eyed him for several long moments. The doctor had to see the illogic in what he just said. If he truly was getting along better with Rom, then this unpleasant little game was directed his way instead. He could think of several reasons why he would. None of them lined up with who he thought him to be. “I liked you more when you lied less,” Garak said and stood. He no longer had much of an appetite, but he intended to eat. He still hadn’t regained enough weight from his incarceration.

Julian fell into step behind him. “That may be,” he said lightly, “but you have to admit, things are much more interesting now.”

The rest of their lunch was filled with perfectly pleasant small talk. Garak noticed Julian barely touched his food. He debated whether he should bring it up after Rom and Ziyal left. Were they close enough for such concerns anymore? Had the distance created after the disastrous holosuite incident and compounded by his actions in the Gamma Quadrant and afterward grown so great that even aborted literature discussions were minefields?

Everything he wanted to say sat in his chest, heavy and calcified. Knowing he had done the right thing in creating the distance wasn’t any comfort when he was in his living, breathing presence. “Pity we didn’t get to the book discussion,” he said simply for something to say.

“My dear tailor,” the doctor said with a flash of his old charm, “there is always next week.” He stood with his tray. “Duty calls.”

Garak felt a flare of anger watching him retreat. It was easy for him with duty and purpose, the chief to play his ridiculous games, co-workers who respected and admired him, Earth not under direct threat. In the end, he’d taken the safety Garak offered him and waltzed away as though it was his due. Did he enjoy seeing him more isolated again? Did he leave him to it with a sense of malice, or had Garak done so much that he’d managed to snap something he’d once believed couldn’t break, the doctor’s endless patience with him?

All of Leeta’s talk of pagh paths seemed more like nonsense than ever. They weren’t bound together. They were drifting apart, a moon and a planet with the moon doomed one day to be left behind for good. If he could do more for Cardassia, get them to listen to him about the Founder’s threats, something useful, he could bear this better. It would feel like a worthy sacrifice. All this felt like was the taste of ash.

**Part II**

_Julian_  
Internment Camp 371  
2200 

Julian followed in Sela’s and Varal’s wake, trotting to keep up. “I don’t see the harm in teaching me to play,” he said. “I have water and rations the same as the rest of them.”

“You’re annoying,” Sela snapped. “It’s reason enough.”

“I don’t know,” Varal said, eying both of them speculatively. “Water is water. I’m thirsty enough to put up with his idiocy. Besides, it will be up to the others as to whether he can join the regular sessions.”

“Fine,” she said with a sharp gesture. “Let’s get to it then.”

The three of them sat cross-legged in a rough circle with Varal drawing out a pair of crudely scratched dice made from scrap metal. He explained the rules in a disinterested voice while one of the night Jem’Hadar guards slowly stalked past them and far enough away not to overhear them.

“I don’t think we should go through with it,” Julian said quietly.

“Losing your nerve?” Varal hissed in anger.

“No. Tain says he’s close to finishing and that he won’t take any more medicine after this last dose runs out.”

“So?” Sela leaned back and acted as though she was just stretching her back in a slow twist side to side to be sure no other guards stood nearby. “That only makes what we need to do easier. We steal food and water, and we have no need to rifle through medical supplies.”

“But if Tain gets the signal out—”

“We have no idea who will hear it or how quickly they’ll get here,” Varal said. He rolled the dice and offered them over to Sela. “Besides, the others believe we’re trying to keep a bunkmate alive. If we suddenly say, ‘Never mind,’ when no one has died yet that will raise questions. Do you want either Murak or Branagh poking around our barracks?”

Sela rolled the dice, cursed under her breath, and handed them to Julian. “Just roll,” she said.

“The numbers are against us. Murak agrees with me in this. There are too many of them always on the doors. Five during day shift, three at night, and I’m sure that if all of us started stirring around when we’re usually asleep, they would summon the rotating patrols.” He rolled the dice and asked a bit more loudly, “Was that a good roll?”

Varal rolled his eyes and snatched up the dice. “If you have to ask, then no,” he said. “I still believe we can create a large enough distraction. The Cardassians are itching for a fight. It won’t take much to get them there.”

Julian shook his head. “We’ve been through this already. If we create a mass brawl, they’ll vaporize the ones who are rioting and put the rest of us on real lockdown. We won’t get a second chance.”

Approaching footsteps attracted their attention. They watched Murak close the distance and take a seat between Julian and Sela. Julian knew her glare of distaste was no ruse, and he believed he was slowly beginning to get a better read on the geneticist. That dislike was mutual. “Have you shared what we discussed, Doctor?” Murak asked.

“I have. They’re not listening.”

“It is just as well. I believe I may have come up with a solution to one of our obstacles. Unfortunately, testing it will prove challenging and dangerous and will require all of us cooperating to the letter.” He regarded each of them in turn. “I trust that is not too much to ask?”

_2300_

The overhead light in the dust showers chamber flickered in a way that always gave Julian a headache. He felt sweat trickling down the small of his back and adding to the filth of his soiled uniform. “You know if this doesn’t work, we just made life here for every single one of us that much worse for nothing,” he said low.

“Don’t distract me,” Varal’s voice came to him from one of the smaller stalls. “Just watch that door like Murak told you.”

He sighed and did as asked. He could hear metal grinding, a soft, stealthy sound that had no chance of carrying beyond the door. He wished he could do more than wait in the close, stuffy environment. Waiting was better than what he’d have to do if anyone tried to come inside. He supposed he should be grateful for the quiet.

It seemed an eternity passed before the Romulan finished with everything up to the second to last stall. He closed with Julian, dripping sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead. Julian stopped him from reaching for the door. “Not like that,” he said. “We should both take a shower.”

Varal’s eyes flickered with genuine surprise followed by chagrin. “Good catch,” he said reluctantly. “And good thing I left one working.”

They left the dust showers together as clean as anyone could ever get in the prison and retreated to their barracks as though nothing was wrong. Julian willed himself to sleep. He’d need it for what was coming next.

_0700_

Tain was already medicated and sequestered doing his work when Julian left the barracks for his usual stroll. There was one less guard on his walk, a fact he communicated to Sela with a single finger lifted to scratch his chest as they passed. He knew it didn’t mean much. The patrols occasionally varied by a soldier or two. They were still around somewhere. It would be dangerous to assume differently.

When he reached the dust showers, he made sure no guards saw him slip inside. He had no idea if any of the others were in place until he passed Murak already hidden in the first stall. The Vulcan offered a single sanguine nod. Julian quickly slipped into the second stall and pressed his back against the side of it closest to the chamber door, standing as deep in shadow as he could manage. His heart pounded against his sternum. If Murak was wrong about this, he didn’t like to think about what would happen to all of them.

His nerves were frayed raw by the time he heard the chamber door opening. He held his breath because he couldn’t tell from the footsteps who it was. The sight of Branagh passing him and shooting him a quick wink had him closing his eyes and letting it out in a shaky spill. He’d never been happier to see someone he so thoroughly disliked in his life.

Branagh didn’t stay long. He marched out of the chamber like an irritated man on a mission. Julian could hear his raised voice beyond the door and the lower, sharper tones of a Jem’Hadar guard. A third voice joined the distance distorted conversation. _Shit,_ he thought. They had known that was a possibility but hoped it wouldn’t be the case. He felt himself tensing in anticipation.

Julian heard the door open again and the tread of at least three sets of feet, some of them in heavy boots. “It’s bad enough you barely feed us enough to keep a baby alive,” Branagh complained. “But now you’re cutting off our showers?” Julian saw him step into view and reach to grab the Jem’Hadar on his heels by the arm. _Oh, god,_ he thought in dismay. _What are you doing, you fool?_

The Jem’Hadar jerked back and raised his rifle, standing less than two feet from Julian’s hiding spot. He hardly dared to blink.

“Hey, hey!” Branagh’s voice raised in pitch. “No need to get so testy. You gonna come look at this or not?”

The guard swept past him, but the second just as quickly stepped into view, rifle also raised and gaze trained ahead of him. _Just a little further,_ Julian thought. If he tried to attack from this angle, he’d be dead before he reached him. He’d done the counting for their reflexes. He was no match.

Murak glided into view without a sound and clamped a hand down hard at the juncture of the soldier’s neck and shoulder. The Jem’Hadar whirled with teeth bared and rifle at the ready. Before he could yell a warning to the other, Julian surged forward and clawed the ketracel white tube free of its anchor. Deep red blood and white enzyme solution sprayed a spotted pattern across the dusty wall.

Murak clung to his target, hands lifting and spreading across the craggy gray head. “My mind to your mind,” he gritted through clenched teeth, his face contorted with strain.

The moment Julian saw the guard’s eyes begin to roll, he whirled to find Varal and Branagh fighting with everything they had to prevent the other guard from firing his disruptor rifle or crying out a warning. “The white!” Julian hissed.

Varal understood and ripped the tube loose. Julian dove at the soldier’s back and wrapped both arms around him, scrambling for his hand over the trigger. The Jem’Hadar twisted and threw himself backward. Julian thudded against the wall hard enough to lose his breath and see white flashes, crushed by his opponent’s bulk. Coughing and wheezing, he clung desperately to the thick finger in his grip. Someone, he didn’t see who, managed to wrench the weapon away.

He let go suddenly and dropped down to a crouch just as the alien threw himself backwards a second time. This time he tripped over Julian and slammed himself into the wall, the back of his head making a satisfying crack. “Way to go, Doc!” Branagh said quietly but with intensity.

As Julian struggled to his feet, he saw Branagh and Varal both kick their target the rest of the way into unconsciousness. The three stood close together, panting and hardly daring to believe they’d succeeded this much. Julian bent to re-thread the tube then turned to watch Murak. If he didn’t succeed in his part, there was a good chance all they had done was bought themselves death sentences.

_Garak  
Private Quarters_

He’d had too much kanar, and now it was very likely he had isolated himself from one of his last remaining friends on the station. He admitted to himself that he could have handled Rom’s worry about Quark and Odo not making it to their destination when scheduled better. He didn’t have to be so harsh about his own belief that the Defiant’s suddenly leaving on an unscheduled mission likely had nothing to do with it. He felt more bitter than ever about his isolation from his family and people. Rom’s connection to his family at times was salt in that wound.

Sighing, he promised himself that he would apologize to him in the morning. His contrition didn’t extend quite far enough to prompt him to do some digging in the computer logs. If something terrible had happened, then let Rom have a final few hours merely worrying about it. If it was good news, he’d be that much happier when he found out. It was time to back away from these inconvenient attachments of his. They didn’t help him. They only made him feel more alone.

He spent the next several days sticking to his resolution to return to his old ways. It was easier this way. Of course he felt relief when the constable returned to them alive, and he was genuinely happy for Rom that Quark made it back intact, too. He allowed him his, “I told you they were in trouble,” with good grace. He continued his breakfasts with Odo, although they felt like going through the motions rather than anything of true importance. Did the changeling feel it, too?

He skipped his next lunch with Julian without explanation. He didn’t know if the fact the doctor said and did nothing about it made him more angry than sad or vice versa. It only served to confirm what he had feared after stepping from the holosuite bleeding from the bullet Julian had fired at him. Once the doctor had finally learned who he truly was, he was no longer able to associate with him in good conscience. Any tentative forays into reconciliation were nothing more than the dying embers of human sentiment. How ironic that business was booming better than ever when it mattered so little to him now.

It was tempting not to answer the persistent chime on his comm as he returned from another day of a packed store and merchandise flying off his racks. It was likely either Ziyal or Leeta. He couldn’t stand the though of worried eyes and gentle prodding. Shaking his head, he closed the distance and answered the hail. Captain Sisko’s smile was the perfunctory face of Starfleet professionalism at its best. “Mister Garak, I was about to give up on reaching you.”

“I just returned to my quarters for the evening,” Garak said. “Good timing, Captain. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Not, _What can I do for you?_ No. He wouldn’t step into that trap readily.

“I have something I thought you might like to have a look at before it returns to Bajor permanently. Your government was surprisingly cooperative about it. Interested?”

_Not just any trap,_ he thought, _a clever trap._ His curiosity would one day be the end of him. All of his immediate family had said so at one time or another. He smiled pleasantly and inclined his head. “Where shall I meet you?”

“Come to the wardroom. I’ll see you there.” He smiled a final time and ended the transmission.

After freshening up, he headed down the habitat ring and took a turbolift. He hadn’t heard a word from Sisko since before his incarceration and hadn’t expected to again until the man intended to put him to use. That debt hung over him constantly. How did the humans put it? The Sword of Damocles? The reason he spent six months in one of Deep Space Nine’s relatively cushy holding cells rather than on a prison colony housing Cardassians and Maquis insurrectionists alike. The reason he wasn’t dead for winding up somewhere Tain didn’t wish for him to be. _Even in death, your reach is impressive,_ he though dryly. If he was dead at all. That was a thought for another time. He’d need his wits and focus in the here and now for whatever this turned out to be.

When he reached the wardroom, the door swished open at his first hail. He stepped inside only to find Sisko alone, standing at a relaxed version of parade rest and eying something on the wall. He beckoned Garak closer. “Come see,” he said. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Stepping up to his side, Garak obliged. He hid his confusion to the best of his ability. What was this? An ancient painting from Lakarian City? Why would his people send such a thing to the Bajorans? “An impressive work of art, to be sure,” he said pleasantly.

Sisko chuckled. “Not just any work of art, Mister Garak. This painting is twenty thousand years old. You’re looking at the only evidence of the lost city of B’hala. That spire is called a Bantaca Spire. If we could see all of the symbols on it, we’d know the exact location of the ruins. Your government took this during the occupation. They’ve finally seen fit to return it to its rightful owners.”

“I’m pleased to know the treaty continues to yield benefits,” he said. Inside, his mind whirled. He vividly recalled his trip with Tolan to Lakarian City in his childhood, the ruins that were later dismantled and sold to Romulans placing the highest bids, pieces of Cardassia’s past the rulers of the time wanted to erase. “It was kind of you to include me.”

“You risked yourself in support of the treaty,” Sisko said simply. “It seemed only fair.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve been thoughtful of me,” Garak said carefully. He inclined his head deeply and held it for a polite few seconds. His visions in the holding cell contained a spire very similar to this, not identical, but alike enough to give him pause. He felt his entire world trying to tilt sharply to the left, a sickeningly familiar sensation.

The next thing he knew, Sisko had him in a supportive grip of both shoulders. “Mister Garak? Should I call the infirmary?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and feeling himself steady again. “I skipped lunch today. I just need to get something in me, and I’ll be fine.”

Although he looked skeptical, Sisko simply nodded and released him. “Do that. I won’t keep you any longer.”

He smiled blandly and hurried away. Not knowing what to make of any of it, he wasn’t satisfied until he was back in his quarters and seated at his terminal. This was going to take time and very careful effort on his part. Food was the furthest thing from his mind while he delved deeply into sealed records on Prime not meant for anyone’s eyes anymore. It was close to midnight before he was in, and he spent another three hours reading obscure papers, examining diagrams and dig notes, and viewing still shots and vid footage of the last archaeologists allowed to study Hebitian ruins related to the Oralian Way before the religion was outlawed entirely.

He knew he was pushing his luck. The longer he stayed linked to the system, the more chance there was of someone tracing it and coming for him. He inserted a data rod to store what he’d found. A sudden explosion of light and heat seared him with burning pain and threw him back insensate to the floor.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Varal and Branagh worked feverishly with handfuls of dust to clean the evidence of their fight with the guards in the shower chamber. Julian squatted beside Murak, only his firm grip preventing the Vulcan from falling backward into the filth on the floor. “Stay with me,” he said calmly. “You can’t pass out on us now.”

He wished that he understood what was happening to him. Murak had managed to mind meld with both soldiers. They left the chamber unaware of what had just happened and convinced they were battered because of training exercises. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to get a word out of the scientist since then.

“Doc?” Tension strained Branagh’s voice. Varal’s glance over at them contained the same degree of worry.

“I don’t know,” Julian snapped. “Let me think.” The nerve pinch hadn’t worked at all. It was possible that Jem’Hadar psyches and neural pathways were so alien that Murak had suffered some sort of psychic backlash. He wasn’t terribly familiar with Vulcan psychology. It wasn’t a major focus of his studies. “We shouldn’t all be seen leaving the showers at the same time, anyway. Help me get him into one of the stalls. I’ll stay with him.”

Sela poked her head in through the main door. “There’s an opening if one of you wants to take it.”

Branagh nodded at Varal. “You go ahead. I can manage the rest of the cleanup. There’s not much left, and then I can help the doc.”

The Romulan nodded and hurried out of the chamber without looking back. Sela retreated, leaving the three alone. Branagh threw another handful of dust against the wall and scrubbed with the tattered edge of a sleeve. “Starting to look like regular smutz rather than bloodstains. Whaddaya think?”

“I think we’re pressing our luck by staying in here this long exposed. Come on. Help me get him into one of these stalls.”

Branagh grunted and approached to take Murak’s ankles. “Never in my life thought I’d be helping a gree—” He cut himself off and shot a quick glance at Julian. “One of these fellas,” he amended.

“If it helps, remember you’re also helping yourself,” Julian said flatly. He groaned when he lifted him with a grip under his arms. He had pulled a couple of muscles during the fight. They crab stepped into the crowded stall and carefully set him down again.

“Heavier than they look,” Branagh said. “Gonna get back to it, and unless you can think of a reason I should stay, I’m out next.”

“By all means,” Julian said tightly, turning his attention back to his conscious but unresponsive charge.

Instead of doing as he’d said, Branagh folded his arms. “For a while now, I’ve had a strong feeling you don’t like me. I haven’t done anything to you, so what gives?”

“I don’t like the company you keep,” he said. “Now, please, leave me alone. If I can’t help him, all of this was for nothing.”

“The comp—oh, you mean the Syndicate.” Branagh snorted. “Fine, Mister High and Mighty. Just remember it was a Syndicate rat that kept that scaly from taking your head off just now. Like it or not, we’re in it up to our necks together, and it was your choice.”

“Don’t make me regret it, then.” Julian pointedly turned his attention back to Murak. It was too dark in the stall for a proper examination of his eyes. _Think, Julian. What do you remember about mind melds?_

It was no surprise that Vulcan was somewhat closed lipped when it came to this particular talent of its natives. He had to rely more on historic records of Earth and human Starfleet officers’ personal experiences than scientific and medical research he’d studied at med school.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there squatted beside him racking his brain and dripping sweat, long enough for Branagh to finish cleaning the evidence and leave them alone, long enough for a couple of Cardassians to come in and start complaining about how only one of the shower heads worked. He simply shouted for them to leave him alone when they beat their fists against his stall door, a little surprised that it worked.

They couldn’t stay here indefinitely. There would be head count soon. He doubted Murak could stand on his own in his state, and the Jem’Hadar would never stand by and allow Julian to support him without digging into what had happened. He really, _really_ didn’t like where his scant information led him. What other choice did he have?

Filled with misgiving, he clasped Murak’s wrist and lifted the Vulcan’s hand to the side of his face. He positioned the fingers over his own temple, cheek, and jaw. “Come on,” he murmured. “I know you’re in there. Some part of you has to hear me.”

Suddenly, he felt overwhelming pressure directly in his mind, and he was no longer alone with his thoughts. He was helpless to stop the violation or mitigate it in any way. He sensed nothing from Murak but desperate instinct, apparently as powerless to stop this as Julian. He hoped his scream was only in his head.

_Garak  
The Infirmary_

Bright light shone directly into one eye. Garak flailed, only to feel a hand at his shoulder pressing him back. Julian’s face swam into view. “Welcome back,” the doctor said. He gave him a final pat and drew away a short distance. “I’m beginning to think the chief needs to do an overhaul of the computer systems.”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Never mind,” Julian replied. “How do you feel?”

He blinked and reached up to rub at his chest. He ached a little, a minor version of his old agony from the phaser blast. It took him a few seconds to recall what he had been doing before the explosion. “Probably better than I should expect,” he said. “I suppose I have you to thank?”

“I’m good at what I do,” he said with a faint smile. “You’re lucky Odo was concerned when you missed breakfast and didn’t open up shop this morning. He went looking for you and found you unconscious in your quarters. As best as we can figure, your computer terminal overloaded last night and suffered a plasma breach. Naturally, you had nothing to do with that.”

Garak felt a spark of genuine irritation. “This will likely disappoint you to no end, Doctor, but I did not. Unless trying to save information to a data rod is now Starfleet’s idea of tampering with a system?”

Julian held up a hand. “No need to get agitated. I had to ask. Do you feel like you can sit up?” He offered a hand to him.

The Cardassian pointedly ignored it and struggled to a seat by himself. He slowly looked around the room. The lights were brighter, the colors somehow more lurid. He found himself grateful for the recent Starfleet uniform change. Julian’s science blue was far more muted with the new turtleneck and gray-ish quilting of the jacket.

“Post-neural Shock Syndrome,” the doctor said helpfully. “A mild case. I am concerned it could trigger your migraines. You’ll tell me if you need help with them?”

He searched his gaze for any signs of his old warmth and concern, the aching humanity that had been both comfort and scourge during his ordeal with the wire. He saw only professional solicitation and looked away. “Of course,” he lied.

“Garak...” Julian touched his hand.

Did he spot a moment of uncertainty beneath the facade, or was he grasping at straws? He didn’t immediately pull his hand away. It hurt his pride to make this concession to need, however small. “I will,” he said, no longer as sure it was a lie.

“Good man.” Julian gave his fingers a light squeeze and released him. “You’re free to go if you promise me you’ll take it easy the next few days. If I see the lights on in your shop after hours, I’ll be forced to be cross with you. Oh, before I forget, Odo said he wanted to speak with you once you were up and about. If I were you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

He nodded and left the infirmary, unsure of whether he felt encouraged by that exchange or merely wanted to feel encouraged. The heat from his hand seemed to linger. Every sensation was a little heightened, almost like when he’d used some of the enhancement drugs the Order reserved for high-risk operations. The side effects were less than ideal. He hoped this wouldn’t be similar.

He braced himself for a grilling from the constable on his way to the security office. One of the Bajorans on duty waved him in. Odo gestured to the chair opposite him, and Garak obliged.

“You haven’t been yourself lately,” the changeling said abruptly.

Garak arched an eye ridge. It wasn’t the line of questioning he expected. “Nonsense. I’m always myself. Who else would I be?”

Odo rolled his eyes. “You may have everyone else fooled. Not me. I’d think that after everything we’ve been through, you might trust me a little bit. You’ve acted like it up until very recently.”

“That was before you invaded my mind and inflicted me with your guilt-induced hallucination.” It wasn’t fair. It was a horrible thing to say to someone who just this morning possibly saved his life. He watched the barb sink in and drive home.

Odo’s thin mouth tightened. “Your computer wasn’t the only malfunction on the station last night. I’m looking into it. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“I’m not a suspect?” Garak asked in surprise.

“No. You’re one of the victims.” Odo’s gaze was steady.

Garak was familiar enough with him to see the hurt beneath the scrutiny. “Then I’ll be going, Constable,” he said, standing, inclining his head, and turning to depart. He passed by Quark’s on the way to the turbolift just in time to see Leeta and some of the other Dabo girls unveiling a Federation banner. No doubt he’d soon be subjected to hearing all about it. It was just as well that he had recently restocked his private kanar supply. He’d need it.

He wasn’t wrong, and he shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to dinner at the Celestial Café. It wasn’t just Leeta and Aroya going on excitedly about the impending Federation membership. The restaurant was filled with happy Bajorans. Their voices seemed louder than usual, more shrill. He could taste flavors in the food he had never noticed before. It tasted off enough to kill most of his appetite.

Leeta didn’t notice his mood. Ziyal did. He felt slender fingers threading between his under the table and a soft squeeze. He glanced at her. She offered a faint, rueful flicker of a smile. Was it possible she had concerns about the Federation, too? If she did, then she was the first he had met besides Quark to agree with him.

“You’ve hardly said a word since we got here,” Leeta said, finally winding down from her enthusiastic gushing.

“He was injured earlier,” Ziyal said. She shot him an apologetic glance. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything about it,” she added.

“Because it’s mine to say.” He glared at her. “Or not.”

“Garak,” Leeta admonished. “You should have told me when I invited you to dinner. You probably shouldn’t even be here. How badly were you hurt?” She looked him over as though expecting to see blood seeping through his tunic.

It was almost too much for him. He directed another annoyed glance at Ziyal. “Not badly. It was more of an inconvenience than anything else.”

“An inconvenience?” It was Ziyal’s turn to look annoyed. “Odo found you unconscious in your room. I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, but I’m not afraid to tell you that you haven’t been acting like yourself.”

“Now you sound like Odo,” he snapped.

Both women exchanged glances. Leeta said, “Then that’s a good thing, because Odo is your friend. We all are. Stop acting like we’re wrong to be worried. You’re being rude.”

He slapped his napkin down onto the table. “I’m done here,” he said, pushing to his feet. He didn’t want to be there. He hadn’t wanted to come. Why he gave over to sentiment was beyond him. He needed to research more about the Lakarian ruins. He was onto something with it. He had a gut feeling about it.

“Garak!” Both Leeta and Ziyal said it in tandem, Leeta sounding angry, Ziyal upset.

Aroya hurried toward their table, glanced at his plate and asked, “Is something wrong with the food?”

“It’s too seasoned, and everything is too loud. You didn’t used to allow your customers to get so loud. I don’t know why I bother to come here, and I definitely don’t know why I agree to dinner dates with people who can’t talk about anything worthwhile. I’m busy. No one has the decency to just leave me alone.” He stalked from the restaurant, ignoring the hurt and confusion he left in his wake. He needed to get back to his computer right now.

**Part III**

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Julian blinked, his eyes tearing and feeling as though they had been open for far too long. He heard Murak’s voice as though from a distance, slowly gaining volume just as he slowly gained focus on the Vulcan’s dark gaze. “—realized what to do.”

He shook his head and swallowed in a dry throat. “Repeat, please?”

“I said that it is fortunate that you realized what to do. I regret that I was unable to temper my response to your attempt to establish a connection. The Jem’Hadars’ minds are...perilous. Yours, however, is surprisingly more similar to a Vulcan’s than I would have expected.” The scientist stood and offered a hand up to Julian.

He hesitated to take it. Anxiety lanced him suddenly. “Then you— I mean, I mean you...” He couldn’t stop stuttering. It felt like being a little boy all over again in the new hospital.

“There would be no benefit in my exposing you,” Murak said evenly. “Neither to anyone here, you, nor Starfleet. You should not suffer for the actions of others. You may depend upon my discretion.”

His hands broke out in sweat that had nothing to do with the stifling heat of the stall. He desperately wanted to be able to believe that. Vulcans’ reputations for honesty helped. _Not all Vulcans are honest,_ an insidious thought intruded. _I have no choice but to hope this one is,_ he countered. It was still hard to be in his presence without shrinking away from him. No one had ever shaken him more deeply, not even Garak when he attacked him all that time ago. “Thank you. Did you learn anything we could use?” He hated the tremor in his voice.

Murak nodded. Whatever he felt about Julian’s new discomfort stayed hidden behind the placid mask of his sharp features. “Indeed. However, this is neither the time nor place to discuss it. We need to leave this place and present ourselves for head count. It should be called soon.”

Julian nodded. He knew it was a risk simply to walk out of the chamber. He felt he had little choice. If Sela hadn’t looked in on them again in a while, although he wasn’t sure either of them could be sure of how long they had been there, it must have been because the guards were getting suspicious of her. He hurried down to the one working stall and tapped the button only long enough to get a small handful of the dust, rubbing it over his face, hair, and hands.

With a final glance at Murak, he left the chamber. A Jem’Hadar watched him emerge and start walking toward his barracks. He couldn’t tell if the scrutiny was normal or suspicious. They were harder to read than Cardassians. His heart was still pounding from the terror of Murak learning his secret. He had hoped that the geneticist would be able to temper the invasion and use the contact to find his way back from wherever delving into the Dominion shock troops’ minds left him. It was a calculated risk, and he had lost in the worst possible way.

Martok lay sleeping on his bunk. Julian frowned. No one else but the Breen was in the barracks, and the panel to the crawlspace was shut. He glanced once at the door and once to the bunk where the pry tool ought to be. Swiftly making his decision, he lunged forward and dropped to his knees to grab the tool. He worked feverishly at the panel to get it open. “Tain?” he called. “Tain!”

Nothing.

“Damn it,” he growled. Gingerly he started forward into the darkness. Tain’s threat to him the last time he intruded was at the forefront of his mind. God, but it was stifling in that alcove. He felt his way forward in the dark. It shouldn’t have been that dark. The Cardassian had fashioned a makeshift light from some fiber optics and a small junked power cell he’d managed to coax back to life somehow. 

His hand settled on a booted foot. “Tain?” he whispered.

He had no choice but to pull him out with him, his progress painstaking and painful after his fight. Tain was incredibly dense with thick clothing that was hard to grasp, far more muscular than his appearance suggested. As dead weight he felt more like a fallen log than flesh and blood. Julian was completely out of breath when he backed out of the alcove. “How am I ever going to get you on a bunk?” he groaned. He couldn’t risk leaving to find Sela or Varal and feared what would happen to the Klingon if he awoke him and enlisted his help.

He glared over at the Breen. “Do you want out of this damned place?” he growled. “Make yourself useful for once.”

He couldn’t tell if it was looking at him through that visor. He should have known he’d get nowhere with it. It just lay on its bunk as languid as ever. Gathering his waning strength, he tugged and slid Tain free of the opening. Partially in order to give himself a chance to catch his breath and partially as a precaution if anyone walked in on them, he wrangled the panel back into place and secured it.

The sound awoke Martok. The Klingon tried to sit up only to fall back flat onto his cot. He let out a string of curses then said, “Where were you? Where are the Romulans?”

“I was talking to Murak,” he said, trying to hide how guilty and unsettled he felt, guilt for keeping the fact they were continuing the plan from the general and unease at how doing so may have just cost them Tain. “If I had known you—” _No, don’t go there._ “The time got away from me. He’s a brilliant scientist.”

“Wise of you not to complete that sentence,” Martok grunted. “Help me sit up, and I’ll help you with him. Is he dead?”

“No.” He had heard him breathing while he struggled with him in the crawlspace. “I think there wasn’t enough air for him with the panel closed.”

He knew he’d never be able to argue Martok out of helping him. He pulled him up, and then the two of them somehow wrangled Tain’s bulk onto his cot. Both of them fell back to a seat on the floor afterward. Martok’s laughter was grim. “I could have imagined a thousand ways this one,” he gestured at Tain, “could be the death of me,” he said. “This wasn’t one of them.”

Sela stuck her head through the door. “Head count. You’d best get out here.” She frowned at both of them when they didn’t move, her gaze slipping to Tain. “What happened?”

Julian shook his head. “No time to explain. I...” he glanced at the general. “We need your help up.”

For once she didn’t make him pay for asking her for something, and a bit later the Jem’Hadar seemed satisfied after looking in on Tain that none of them lied when they said he wasn’t conscious. Their secret would survive a little longer. He didn’t know if he could say the same of the spymaster.

_Garak  
Private Quarters_

He stood in a crowd of Hebitians, their features Cardassian, their demeanors not. An airship drifted overhead with its sails unfurled and catching the reflected rays of a sun more yellow than the red he recalled from his life on Prime. Lush vegetation filled the air with humidity and perfume, the greenery coiling about the stonework of the city. Excited voices rose around him, pale gray hands pointing to the sky. Garak felt himself swept up in the throng rushing toward the plaza where it seemed the ship would land...

He was a woman with a child on her hip. The little boy played with her complex black braid, but she had eyes only for the temple door. The sun rose above the domed roof. The door opened, and a woman of mixed features similar to another he had seen but currently couldn’t recall stepped forth with a joyful smile and recitation mask in hand. “Astraea!” voices lifted around her with joy and hope. “Astraea!” she called as well in a pleasant contralto. The boy waved her braid and did his best to mimic the cry. Mother and son laughed...

The sun rose, set, rose, a hundred times, a thousand, thousands across the spire, then suddenly it expanded with a fiery glow. Arid gusts and sand scoured away the growing things and buried him, his people, everything in dust...

Not everything. The Edosian orchid survived with its strange juxtaposition of fragility and hardiness. The lush and deadly Ba’aten Peninsula survived. He felt tangled roots digging deep, into Cardassian soil, into his heart. He cracked open and from the agony of it, the people rose again, stronger but without their former easy capacity for joy. The planet fell into deep shadow. Looking up, he saw a great chain stretching from Cardassia to the Bajoran System. It plunged into the heart of the wormhole which opened and spread, the poisoned hybrid of his beloved orchid...

From its center honges emerged by the thousands, pitiless carrion hunters whose croaks filled his ears to a deafening pitch, shouting—

“Garak!” Ziyal shook him almost forcefully enough to unseat him, her eyes wide with fear.

Odo stood directly behind her with his hand hovering over his comm badge. “Are you awake, then?” he asked.

“What...what are you doing in my quarters?” he asked both of them. His anger grew as his confusion ebbed. 

“Don’t be angry with Ziyal,” Odo said. “She told me how you were acting at dinner. After what happened to you this morning, I was concerned, too. I’m the one who used my security override to check on you.”

“We’ve been trying to snap you out of it for almost five minutes.” Ziyal’s lashes were wet, but her face was dry. “Jake said his father has been having weird visions, and Nerys said she found him just like this. Something weird is going on with both of you. You should talk to the captain and go back to see Doctor Bashir.” She glanced away from him to his screen. “What is all that stuff?”

He shut it down with a slap of his palm to the control. “Something you will never say you’ve seen if you know what’s good for you.”

“Don’t you dare threaten her,” Odo bristled.

“ _I’m_ not the threat,” Garak said harshly. “If it will make both of you feel better,” _and back off,_ “I’ll talk to Captain Sisko tomorrow. Happy?”

“And Doctor Bashir,” Odo pressed.

Garak waved an impatient hand. “Fine. You’ve drubbed me into submission. Now, if you don’t both show yourselves out, I’m going to lodge a complaint.”

Odo reached to squeeze Ziyal’s shoulder and used the grip to turn her with him. Garak saw her lips trembling and a minute shake of her shoulders. He knew that he should apologize to both of them. He was too tired to deal with this tonight, any of it. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was to change into comfortable sleeping clothes and collapse into his bed. If he was lucky, he would dream.

_Garak’s Clothiers_

He felt restless. He’d stopped studying the computer early that morning. The information there held no more draw. He couldn’t explain why or how he knew, but he had learned all that he could from that. A few customers came and went, fewer buying than usual. He could tell he was putting them off but couldn’t bring himself to care. The whole idea of commerce felt strangely banal, a waste of his time. He was on the verge of something transcendent.

Around mid-morning, Julian paid him a visit. He suppressed his irritation. It was probably either Odo’s or Ziyal’s influence. They clearly didn’t believe him when he said he’d get checked out. The doctor leaned an elbow on his counter. “I’ve come to apologize in person for having to cancel on you today.”

“Cancel on me?” he blinked in confusion.

“Our lunch?” he prompted.

“Oh, that.” Garak waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. I’ve been so busy it slipped my mind entirely.”

“I imagine you have,” Julian nodded, turning in a half circle to look about the shop. “So many more Federation fashions. Wise of you. We’ll likely have all sorts of citizens and tourists flocking here now. Nothing is going to be the same. Did you know the Kai is on the station? To be a fly on that wall.”

Garak frowned slightly. “I thought you hated the—” Agony lanced through his skull. He dropped to his knees before Julian could rush around the counter and grab for him.

“Garak? Garak! Bashir to Ops. Two to beam over—” 

“No!” He struggled back to his feet, the pain receding as quickly as it came on. “Please, Julian, no.”

“Doctor Bashir?” an ensign’s voice came over his comm badge.

“Cancel that request, Ensign,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving Garak.

“Thank you. I think... Well, it’s the shortest migraine I’ve ever had. I suppose that’s something to be grateful for, yes?”

“I suppose,” Julian said, not looking convinced. “You really should come by to get checked out later. I don’t like your color.”

He nodded. “I will. Later. Thank you.” He watched him retreat, surprised and grateful that he chose not to press the issue.

A Bajoran couple entered the shop. He knew at a glance the woman was pregnant, that she knew but the man did not, and that she was worried how he’d react. He could see clearly the man wanted children but that he had been holding off bringing it up because his job wasn’t as secure as he’d like. If the Federation membership went through... If...

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “I’m closed. You need to leave now. If I were you, I’d leave this entire system. I hear Lissepia is nice.” He ignored their puzzlement and then anger, practically driving them from the store. Locking the doors behind him, he staggered out onto the Promenade. Everywhere he looked, he saw people’s fates, their darkest secrets. Far from feeling like a wish granted, it was a nightmare. So much death, so much destruction if... But it could be averted if... _He_ couldn’t stop it. That wasn’t his path. His path...

“Get away from me,” he snarled. “Get out of my head!”

Nog and Ziyal approached from the direction of the Replimat. “What’s wrong with Mister Garak?” Nog asked. He was missing an arm. How could he stand there looking so calm with a mangled stump where his arm should be?

Ziyal blazed in his vision, a blinding white light suddenly snuffed dark. In that one moment of incandescence he felt such fierce love flowing his way, it almost unmade him. He didn’t deserve it. No one deserved to be loved that thoroughly and blindly. Where was she? _Where is she?_

Honges swept down the wide corridor, their carrion reek overwhelming him. He ducked and covered his head, only to feel them pass through him by the thousands headed straight for Prime. They covered the planet in inky blackness, their harsh cries and snapping beaks a deafening cacophony. They devoured everything in sight. A naked spire thrust from the ground like a degloved finger, warning and retribution at once.

“I need a doctor!” he cried out. He felt hands at his elbows. He blindly followed where they led, only to pass out on a biobed and lie as stricken as death.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Murak rolled the dice. “I believe I will raise you,” he said in his deadpan voice. Sela and Varal muttered under their breath. Branagh gave a subtle nod the moment the patrolling guard left earshot. “There is another door. The guards at the bay doors are distractions. The energy it takes to open the bay is an inefficient use of their systems.”

“How are they getting in and out?” Branagh asked. “We’ve been watching them. They don’t sneeze without us seeing it.”

“They don’t sneeze at all,” Sela said.

Julian paled as realization hit. “They shroud themselves. Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t consider it before. They could...what would prevent one from being here right in this moment, listening to everything we say?” What would prevent them from being in the barracks, watching Tain, waiting... Murak’s voice snapped him back to the present.

“We are beneath that level of concern, Doctor,” he said. “As you have accurately surmised, they shroud to mask their comings and goings from their command center beyond the doors. They do not spy upon us. They do not care what we do as long as we remain where we ought to be and do not cause chaos.”

“What good does this do us?” Sela asked, her frustration closer to the surface than Julian had ever seen it.

“I have the location of the door,” Murak said. “I also have the code.”

“You don’t think that door is guarded?” Branagh asked skeptically.

“It is, but not as closely as the distraction. I believe that with your and Doctor Bashir’s help, I can breach the command center. If the rest of you could provide some controlled mayhem, we may yet attain what we seek. We may yet save your bunkmate and buy all of ourselves a little more time.”

“Me?” Branagh asked suspiciously. “Why me?”

“The Jem’Hadar view you as less of a threat than the Romulans. They will not turn aggressive as quickly at the sight of you, which may give us the time we need to gain the advantage.”

“When?” Julian asked, wishing that the answer could be right now.

“Soon,” Murak said. “Allow me to fully recover from the mind meld, and I will be ready.”

“We all will,” Sela said. The others nodded.

For the first time since his arrival there, Julian allowed himself a tiny sliver of real hope. 

_Garak  
The Infirmary_

“Have I ever told you how fascinating Cardassian neural structure is?” Julian asked, glancing at him over his shoulder.

“Have I ever told you that your bedside manner leaves much to be desired?” Garak sniped. “No one wants to feel like a laboratory experiment, Doctor.”

Julian smirked and held up a hand. “Point taken,” he said. “Fortunately for you, I believe I’ve found a drug that will block the continued formations of the clustered neurological abnormalities causing your visions and pain. You’re faring far easier than most races would with your condition.”

“I’ve often said we Cardassians are remarkable,” he said. His heart wasn’t really in it. He was terrified he’d have another episode before the doctor could treat him for it. “How long am I to wait for this treatment?”

“I’m synthesizing it as we speak. You should be out of here and back in your own bed within the hour, a good thing, too, considering I need to prep for a surgery. Nurse Frendel will administer the drug when it’s complete.” He paused at his side and pressed a hand lightly to his shoulder. “I wasn’t joking about your being in your bed. I expect you to take bed rest for at least a full day and check back in with me before returning to work.”

Garak watched him, feeling heartened to see a trace of the old warmth he had come to expect from him. Perhaps both of them had been having a particularly hard time of things lately. He shouldn’t have been so quick to judge or despair. He reached up to clasp his fingers in a light press. He didn’t dare to do more. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“My pleasure.” Julian patted him a final time and left him there. He lay quiet and waited. He could hear the soft whir of the medical equipment all around him. He had fallen into a light doze by the time the Bajoran nurse came into the room with a loaded hypospray. It said much about his mental state that he didn’t protest with a single sound when receiving it.

He still felt drowsy when he was allowed to stand. He winced at the sight of Ziyal and Nog seated in the waiting area. She had been crying by the looks of it, with Nog awkwardly trying to be comforting. Nog’s feeling of being trapped was written all over his face. They both stood. Ziyal’s hesitation to approach lashed his conscience. He had never suffered memory lapses, yet it seemed his recollection of the past fifty-two hours or so was spotty. It was disconcerting to have holes where he knew experiences should be. He recalled enough to know he had been unconscionably cruel to the girl.

“If I haven’t convinced you I’m completely unworthy company,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would walk me to my quarters.” He inclined his head to Nog. “While I also appreciate your staying with Ziyal and helping me here, I believe you can go home unless she wishes otherwise.”

She quickly squeezed Nog’s hand and said something to him Garak didn’t quite catch. He nodded to her and then Garak and hurried away as fast as he could without breaking into a trot. “I’ll walk you,” she said, hugging herself and staying further from him than was her wont.

“I wish I had an explanation for why I’ve been acting the way I have. I...truly don’t know.”

“I’d rather not talk about that right now,” she said. She fell into step beside him. “I understand that it probably wasn’t your fault. That doesn’t make any of what you said or did hurt less.” She reached up to wipe at her cheeks. “Did Doctor Bashir tell you?”

“Tell me what?” he asked.

“Bajor won’t be joining the Federation after all. Not yet, at least.”

Garak jerked in surprise. “Why not? I thought it was all settled. Weren’t they about to sign and make it official?”

“It was until Captain Sisko told them not to. I don’t really know more than that. Leeta is devastated. You owe her an apology, too. And Aroya. I’ve never seen you be so mean to anyone for no good reason before. The things you said about her food and the restaurant...”

“I know. I’ll...I’ll get to that as soon as the doctor releases me from treatment.”

She angled in a little closer to him, relenting somewhat. “Captain Sisko might die. Jake and Kasidy are worried sick. For all I know, you could have been close to dying, too. Do you think it’s connected somehow?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t, but he believed it might be, and he had no idea what to make of that or if he wanted the truth. He allowed her to take him all the way to his quarters and see him inside. He gave her a rare embrace unprompted, apologized a final time for his atrocious behavior, and saw her out. He thought that he ought to fear falling asleep again. Oddly, he didn’t.

After changing clothes, he practically fell into his bed. He awoke a few hours later from a dream of Tolan standing alone by the ruined spire on the outskirts of Lakarian City. One lone orchid blossom nodded drowsily in the slow breeze beneath an overcast sky. He was too far away to tell if his expression was sad or just disappointed. When Garak reached up to touch his own face, now fully awake, his cheeks were wet.

It wasn’t in his nature to stay abed if he could stand. He conceded to the doctor’s orders insofar as he chose not to leave his quarters or dress beyond house clothes. He deleted all of his research of the past couple of days from his system. Instead of feeling drawn to continue, he felt repelled at the thought of learning anything further. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that whatever had happened to him was a portent.

Evening found him in a light doze on his couch. A chime from his comm awakened him instantly. He activated it to Sisko’s face, looking tired and drawn. No smile this time. He supposed he should be thankful for small favors. “Ziyal convinced Jake that I ought to speak to you,” he said without preamble. “My son can be very persuasive. Am I to understand that you also had visions after seeing the painting?”

It would be so easy to allow his loneliness to open him to this overture. Times of weakness were exactly the times one should be most on guard. He set aside his impulse to answer him directly. “I hear congratulations are in order. The lost city of B’hala rediscovered due to your efforts? It’s the find of a lifetime, Captain. I’m impressed.”

Sisko’s look shifted to disappointment, but not surprise. “I’m sure you’ve also heard about Bajor’s withdrawal of their petition and greeted the news with equal enthusiasm.”

“Far from it,” he lied smoothly. “I’ll have to return over three quarters of my new stock and figure out what to do for the rest of this season. It’s quite the setback.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Sisko said. He hesitated in his reach to disconnect his comm and let out a sigh. “I don’t know how useful this will be, if at all. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know why I’m telling you other than the fact it matters to Ziyal, which means it matters to my son. I fear the danger of the Dominion to Cardassia is very real. If they attack the Alpha Quadrant, your people may be the first targets.”

“Your visions told you this?” He struggled to lace the words with the disdain he’d normally greet such a concept, at least before his own increasingly bizarre experiences along the same lines. It frightened him terribly to think Sisko had seen similar omens. As always, fear angered him and brought out his baser instincts.

Sisko regarded him enigmatically. “If I don’t miss my mark, I believe yours did, too.”

Garak sighed and rubbed the side of his eye ridge. “While I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I’m really not up to sharing delusions with you again. Our time together in the constable’s head wasn’t enough for you?”

“More than enough, Mister Garak,” Sisko said more crisply. “If you and I were the only ones to consider, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We’re not. Meet with me. Let’s discuss this in person. If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can fill in the blanks.”

It struck him then that the captain wasn’t being completely honest with him about his motives for this call. There was something too eager, almost desperate, in the way he spoke of filling in the blanks. Was his mind as full of holes from his experiences as Garak’s? Well, then. That meant he could leverage his cooperation for advantage, begin some of the repayment for leniency on _his_ terms rather than Sisko’s. He offered him a brilliant smile. “When you put it that way, I’m at your disposal, Captain, as soon as Doctor Bashir releases me from bed rest. Are mornings or evenings more convenient for you?”

“My evenings are freer. We’ll speak again soon. Sisko out.”

Garak continued to smile after the transmission ended. Although the captain had tried to hide it from him, he had seen his unease with his sudden cooperativeness. _Good,_ he thought. _You may have held my fate in your hands. Don’t ever think my debt to you has me utterly defanged._ Dinners with the captain? He could do worse with his overabundance of free time. As he rose to tidy his quarters, he started to hum.

**Author's Note:**

> Spanning “The Ascent” and “Rapture,” this story is a continuation of some canon departures I mentioned earlier in the series. Both the show and a few of the novels have implied some sort of connection between ancient Cardassia and Bajor. I find the concept fascinating and intend to explore it as the series progresses. As for Julian’s side of it, I always felt like his time in the internment camp was given short shrift, so there was plenty of room for expansion.


End file.
